


Heartfelt

by Gearsmoke



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, Swearing. References to teh ghey.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been working on this for a while, in between other things.  It takes place in my N/P storyline, Re: Body Drug, Awake, etc.</p><p>Rating Overall: NC-17.  This Chapter: PG-13<br/>Warnings: Swearing. References to teh ghey.</p><p>*Due to formatting problems, I wound up having to resubmit this work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part 1: Master

1

The great gryphon hall stood over Mordhaus once again. Where the original had incorporated a wooden facing, to emulate the look of Viking construction, this great beast was all iron, black and nigh indestructible, with rows of red lights across its night-hued ribs. Inside, it was much the same as the old building, stone and metal with the smell of solder and freshly molded plastic and ozone, like a new subway station.

Now that re-(re-)construction of Dethklok’s home was functionally done with, there was a strange emptiness that came with the quiet and calm. Even though they were still getting plenty of new recruits for their army of Klokateers, and life at Mordhaus was progressing as it always had, the band’s living space had been conspicuously… peaceful. Which of course meant there were five bored, infinitely spoiled, maladjusted man-children rattling around in their great metal palace.

The boys had found ways to occupy themselves: games, sex, destruction, food, and the odd creative endeavor. Deep within the band’s recording facility, a familiar growling voice recited a set of new lyrics.

 

_Accumulated years_

_Uncovered our fears_

_Don’t tell me I’m wrong_

_You were there all along_

_When you took my flesh_

_The wound wasn’t fresh_

_Pain still exciting_

_Taboo, inviting_

 

Nathan’s voice sang out lower, softer, and more melodic than his typical Dethgrowl. There was something gentler, but at the same time suggestive, seductive to it. This wasn’t a song for his fans, or even for himself. It was something more special, and more precious than that. It had been clawing its way out of him for months, writhing in his brain, alien and uncomfortable, yet undeniable, emotional, personal.

He’d sung the lyrics several times already; they had to be perfect. Every syllable needed to carry the full force of the feelings that had spawned them. He was tearing the words out, excising them like thorns from his skin.

 

_The long suffered ache_

_Of all you could take_

_And a song we both know_

_To the Gods down below_

_Built into the bone_

_As ancient as stone_

_Heated with lust_

_Fluid as trust_

_Like what beats, inside me_

_Melting magma, into you_

 

He’d gotten Toki and Murderface to record a few tracks without really telling them what they were for, and he’d had to promise them both favors, but Nathan considered it worth the trouble _._ The string parts were slower than most of their songs. Pounding, droning bass lines and a simple, keening melody in the guitarist’s slightly flawed but eloquent style. With a little engineering, the two instruments mixed into something raw and hungry.

The drums were a different matter, and Nathan had ended up mixing some public domain samples, resulting in an inoffensive, easily overlooked background beat, nothing like the rhythmic fury of Dethklok’s drummer. But in a way, that was the point; he didn’t want the instruments to be the focus.

 

_This halo, these rivers of blood_

_Torrent forth, become a flood_

_Magnetic pull_

_This tilting bull_

_Crimson-eyed, fiery ardor_

_Vision clouded, pushing harder_

_I claw at the bed_

_I’m drowning in red_

_I scream your name_

_We go insane_

 

When he’d gotten everything the way he wanted it, Nathan carefully removed the master track from the studio recorder and labeled it. He took it into the production room and burned a single copy to CD, holding the fresh disc in its clear plastic case as if it were a fragile treasure, amazed by how good it felt to get the song out of him.

 

_Familiarity_

_Will breed contempt_

_Good things always go awry_

_But fuck them all_

_If we’re meant to fall_

_I’ll devour you_

_Before I die_

 

Nathan hurried out of the studio, excited and preoccupied with having finally finished the song; created something so perfect. He didn’t notice he had left the master recording sitting in its canister on the desk in the production room, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have thought much of it, none of their employees would dare touch anything any member of Dethklok made without their lords’ permission.

2

Pickles had awoken to find the slim plastic square on the pillow next to him, the shining disc inside had two words written on it in black marker: ‘For You’. Since then, he had listened to the song five times, and was working on a sixth, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a look of serene contemplation. Nathan had written this for him, and he could hardly believe how beautiful it was.

Sure, the music itself wasn’t great; the mixing was on the kludgy side, and the drums sounded like the product of a machine… but the lyrics. Those last few lines made him shiver each time he heard them, sung in a breathy whisper that sent an electric shiver up and down his body, settling warmly at his heart and groin. Finally, he took the headphones off and got up to take the CD out of the player.

It had happened many times before, especially when he was drunk or high, but this time Pickles watched in utter horror as the disc slipped from the tray and fell. His fingers had fumbled, his hands not fast enough, and the gleaming plastic hit the stone floor and cracked neatly in half.

"Aw… shit." He knelt to pick up the pieces; they’d broken so perfectly, edges razor sharp. He knew, deep down, that it would be easy to replace, the master recording would be in the studio and they could just burn a new copy, but that wasn’t the point.

It wasn’t until that evening that he’d get the chance to talk to Nathan. After dinner and a short evening practice session, when they’d met up again in the rec room. He didn’t want to say anything in front of the other guys, but Nathan had caught on quickly when he cast a few meaningful glances at the singer.

On the great hook-impaled flatscreen, the band was watching a show about stupid and zany ways to die, complete with gory special effects. Pickles knew Nathan would want to see that, so he waited quietly. Usually he would have enjoyed it, too, but this time, he was just too preoccupied. When the end credits started rolling, the drummer got up to leave, quietly saying he needed to make sure the techs had adjusted the pedals on his new bass drums the way he liked them. Without looking back, Pickles headed out into the hallway, taking the well-traveled route back to his bedroom.

3

Murderface scowled at Nathan’s back as the big frontman got up and silently walked away, leaving him with Skwisgaar and Toki. Once again, Pickles had mumbled some lame excuse and wandered off, and like clockwork, Nathan was following him a few minutes later. They might have thought they were being subtle, but not to William Murderface. No, those two were being _sneaky_ , and it was grating on his nerves.

"There they go again! Thosche two are up to schomething… and I don’t like it!"

Toki looked up from his tablature, "Whats you mean, Moidaface?"

"They’re schneaking around, like they’ve got schome kind of plansch that don’t involve the rescht of usch. They’ve been doing it for weeksch now, don’t tell me you guysch haven’t _noticed_!?"

Pausing in the middle of a Kashi stick, one of the few snacks bland enough to appeal to the lanky Swede, Skwisgaar glanced over at his two bandmates. He popped the rest of the stick in his mouth and chewed, not saying anything.

"I don’ts tink so. But I’s used to being lefts out, so I don’ts pay de best anten-shuns." Toki shrugged and slid forward to kick the television control. He scanned several channels before settling on a program about real world forensics.

"I don’t truscht them, they’re up to no good…" The bassist narrowed his yellow eyes at Toki.

Swkisgaar grunted and informed his bandmates casually, "Dey’s goingks to has sex."

From two directions the same response: " _What!?_ "

Toki was already aware of what was going on between their singer and drummer, but he was genuinely surprised that Skwisgaar, of all people, had come to that conclusion. Murderface was just stunned into staring disbelief.

"No way dude, you’re crazschy!" The bassist snorted.

"…Why yous says dat, Skwisgaar?" Toki tilted his head, eyes wide.

"Hmf! I’s totallies serious. Whats I know betters dan anyt’ing besides from guitars? I knows when two peoples is havingks de sexuals relations-ips rights under my nose!"

"Scho what? I’m the only perschon in thisch band who isn’t gay now?"

Toki’s voice rose to a shrill pitch, "Hey! I’s not gay!"  
  
Skwisgaar didn’t bother to dignify the question with an answer, he’d just let his reputation speak for itself. He did, however, glare irritably when Murderface spoke again.

The bassist was pointing a pudgy finger at his Norwegian bandmate, "You totally are! You’ve had that thing for Schkwischgaar for yearsch and we all know it!"

Toki wailed, "No I do-"

Murderface interrupted, "You even dated a girl who looked juscht like him! … God, whatever, that’sch not even the point… what the fuck? Nathan and Picklesch are scheriouschly…" He couldn’t make himself finish the question, it was just too weird.

"Ja." Skwisgaar shrugged, "Pretties sure, act-you-lee." He glanced at Toki smugly, "Ah, don’ts worry. I know you’s not gay. Is nots you fault yous worships me, I knows I’s gots de… whats is called? Irresiskable charmismas."

"Boats of yous shuts up!" Toki got up and stalked away, deciding to blow off steam by destroying things in low-poly arcade graphics instead of pounding his bandmates’ faces in. The Norwegian’s anger faded quickly though, being teased was rote by now, and soon all he could think of was that he was damn relieved to have one less secret to keep.

4

Nathan’s reaction had been pretty much what Pickles had expected. Amused patience at how upset the drummer had gotten. It was no big deal, they’d just make a new copy. Seeing his lover so frustrated at himself brought something out in Nathan, something he’d fought back for most of his life: Sympathy. He reached out to his bandmate and pulled him into a comforting embrace.  
  
Pickles settled into Nathan’s arms and changed the subject a little, "Ya know, it’s reely a good sahng… do ya wanna polish it up an’ put it ahn our next album?"

"Uh, no, not really. It was just supposed to be for you. Do you want to?"

A warm smile, the redhead liked that. Just for him. "Nah… jest wanted ta know." He shivered when Nathan’s fingertips grazed the angle of his jaw, touching that sensitive, soft spot below his ear, and pulled his chin up to kiss the burly frontman. Pickles let himself unravel into the kiss and the sure strength of his companion’s hands as he had it undeniably proven to him that it was, indeed, just for him.

A few hours later, the singer and drummer finally made it down to the recording studio, both in much elevated and relaxed moods. They joked quietly between each other, Pickles hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk while Nathan looked around for the master recording. And kept looking, a scowl sinking into his rough features.

"Uhhhh… it’s not here." The singer was perplexed, and growing increasingly frustrated by that thought. He started going through every place he might have left the small canister.

Trying to help, Pickles got down and started looking as well, getting under the desk in case it had fallen back there. "Dood… where could it have gahn?"

"Fuck if I know." He sighed, watching Pickles emerge from under the desk with dustbunnies in his dreads. Though technically, he still had the session tracks and could remaster the song, the fact that one of his master tapes had gone missing was extremely disconcerting to both of them.

"Who’d take sahmt’ing frahm here?" Pickles tried to think of all the people who were even allowed into the building. The band, of course. Certain Klokateers, techs with clearance. Knubbler, Offdensen, and the cleaning staff… "Dood!"

"What?"

"The cleaners! What of one of ‘em took it?" Pickles tried to imagine why they’d want to do that. For their hooded employees, to steal from Dethklok was basically a forfeit of your life. Even if the band’s manager forgave you and merely terminated your employment, the other Klokateers wouldn’t let you leave Mordland alive.

Nathan just looked at his bandmate, then muttered unhappily, "Fuck. Maybe. I can make a new master… I’ll… do that." He didn’t really want to think about the implications of the song being stolen. He hoped it was just someone foolish trying to snag a trophy, and that it wasn’t going to turn into another one of those blackmail fiascoes like what had happened with that crazy guy in the wheelchair and his dork brother... That really… had not ended well.

But ultimately, it wasn’t either of those scenarios that played out. Inside a day, the stolen song had become a rapidly spreading viral across hundreds of video and mp3 websites, with not only millions of downloads, but rapidly multiplying fan videos, remixes, and covers. Within hours of its release on the Internet, dozens of forums sprang up like mushrooms, speculating wildly on the identity of the lover the lyrics described.

Everyone wanted to know who _she_ was.

\---


	2. Exposure

Part 2: Exposure

5

Nathan woke up alone, which he found unexpected; hadn’t there been a warm body next to him when he fell asleep? Yes, he could still feel the heat lingering where Pickles had been. Hauling himself out of the bed, the singer washed himself, brushed his teeth, his hair, shaved, applied deodorant - and then indulged in a few seconds of looking at himself critically in the mirror and trying not to feel fat. Nathan dressed, put his boots on, and embarked on the ten-minute walk to the Mordhaus kitchen. Their house, he reflected, was too fucking big.

The drummer wasn’t in the kitchen, though Skwisgaar was, actually eating instead of obsessively dicking around with his guitar. Nathan sat across from the slim Swede, beckoning a servant to take his order for breakfast, and then lapsed into groggy silence while he waited for his food and coffee.

Skwisgaar broke the peace, his voice cutting to Nathan’s sluggish morning brain. "You sees what ams on de intersnet today? Yous secrets song is all overs de MyFace an’ de Ourtubes an’ de Boogles…"

"What?" Nathan blinked, then realized. Secret song. "What!? No way!" He then had another thought, "There’s no secret song, it must be one of those tribute bands pretending to be me!"

"Pff, whatevers dude. I plays wit’ yous guys for years, I t’inks I knows yous voice, and Toki’s guitars-playingks, and Muddaface’s bass… Don’ts even tries to pulls dat bullship on me."

Damnit. Nathan squirmed mentally, Skwisgaar wasn’t a big thinker, but it wasn’t that he was stupid; he just wasn’t interested in most topics outside of music. The scrawny blond could be annoyingly perceptive when he chose to be. The singer grunted in defeat, "Okay, fine, yeah. It was me. Us, it was us. I wrote a thing and we recorded it, but it wasn’t like… it wasn’t going on any records. It was just a thing. And someone stole the fucking thing! …And put it all over the internet!"

"Ja, you reallies gots to keeps on top of dat shit, or it is totallies goingks to gets aways from you." The guitarist paused talking to eat, breakfasting on fried potato hash with onions and saltcod. It must have tasted better than it smelled, because it smelled awful.

Though he wasn’t really hungry anymore when his Breakfast Burger arrived, Nathan ate it anyway. It was food, and food – especially greasy food with bacon on it – helped to calm the big guy down. As it turned out, it didn’t help at all. Skwisgaar understood and really did respect the reasons why they’d all made that deal not to get involved with each others’ lives, but the Swede had a nosy nature, a nagging curiosity that drove him to poke and prod at any weak spots in his bandmates’ thick skins.

"So dids he likeds it?"

Oh hell no. The dark-haired singer tried a last-ditch deflection, "Uhh… Who? Knubbler? I didn’t give it to him, it’s not going to be published."

The Scandinavian rolled his eyes, "I means Pickle. I knows dat song ams abouts him."

Nathan’s face flushed and his mind spun through a variety of reactions. Mostly wishing he wasn’t so bad at lying. "Uhh… no. What?! Why would you say that!?"

"Because I knows yous sleepsking wit’ him." Skwisgaar paused to see if Nathan would react, try to deny it, do anything. But the vocalist just stared in stunned silence. "It ams okay, I don’ts care. But de songs, I hears it, de lyrics, dey tells me my stomach feelingks was rights. I hopes he likeds it, Nat’ans, it ams good…But lets me tells you, it coulds be a lots better if yous has come to me to helps you wit’ it."

After staring blankly at the slim guitarist for several seconds, Nathan just slammed his fists on the table and snarled, "Well that’s just fucking great! Does _everybody_ fucking know about this now!? What about Murderface? Did you tell him!?"

"Ja, he knows. But he don’ts wants to. He t’inks you ams a couple of fags." Glib as always, Skwisgaar continued eating, as if their conversation were about which kind of cable connectors they should use. "He gets over its. So I guess de robot know alreadies?"

Defensively, "Yeah." Nathan couldn’t believe this. They’d been so careless, let this get so far out of hand. It was his fault… He had to find Pickles, had to deal with it before it went any further. "Uh… I have to go." He pushed his half-uneaten food away and rose from the table.

Skwisgaar shrugged, saying to the singer’s back, "Don’ts fucks up de band, Nat’ans. Dat’s all I cares about." He got a grunt in response- not much of an answer, but well enough understood -and Nathan was gone.

6

He’d tried calling Pickles’ Dethphone about half a dozen times before giving up; figuring the drummer must have left the thing somewhere, probably the singer’s bedroom. But when he finally found his dreadlocked bandmate, Nathan understood instantly why Pickles hadn’t picked up – he couldn’t have heard the phone’s riff tone over the music blasting out of the engineering room. The redhead was listening to one of their recently completed tracks.

_You must not think much of me_  
_Don’t lie, I can tell_  
_Assume my stupidity_  
_Must be dumb as hell_  
_I was blind, could not see_  
_You were playing with me_  
_So obviously…_  
_Who holds the knife? Betracheotomy_

Nathan’s own voice roared at him as he opened the door, and he was about to sneak up on the drummer and hug him when the singer noticed someone else was in the room. Trying to be heard over the recording, Nathan yelled a greeting to their producer. Knubbler waved a response, but didn’t bother saying anything, knowing he couldn’t compete for volume.

Though he tried to be friendly to their pseudo-cyborg associate, Nathan didn’t really like Knubbler all that much. He was bitchy and commanding and _creepy_ , and right now he was in the way of Nathan talking privately with his lover. Doubting Pickles would like it much if he kicked Dick out, the singer decided to play nice. He changed direction slightly, passing the producer on his way to the back of the studio, quietly mouthing the lyrics along to the track.

_One of us will fall tonight_  
_One will walk away_  
_There is neither wrong nor right_  
_Only who will win the game_  
_We both feel the coming fight_  
_And know how it must end_  
_It’s down to just you and I_  
_In battle over a lie_  
_One of us will fall tonight_  
_One of us will die._

Grabbing a round of beers from the studio minifridge, Nathan dropped himself onto the small sofa with the peculiar little blond man, while Pickles fiddled with the mixer board. There were little triangular sandwiches on a silver platter on the table, so he helped himself while he waited.

Abruptly, with a triumphant, "Aha!" Pickles singled out the vocals, pulling the instruments back one at a time. "Reet dere, it’s reet dere, dood!"

"Huh." Dick’s eye-lights tightened, "You were right, Pickles. But I can only hear it when you take out everything else. I don’t think the average person’s going to notice this."

"Notice what?" Nathan asked between swigs of Amber Ale.

The drummer turned around on hearing the frontman’s voice, "Oh, hey Nate… Knubbler n’ I were jest goin’ over dis sahng an’ I was gettin’ like dis squeak in da background. Listen." Pickles turned the vocals up louder.

_Let the blood run_  
_Slit the skin_  
_Gurgling breath_  
_Out and in_  
_Still struggling_  
_Cannot win_  
_Getting weak now_  
_Light goes dim_  
_Things are really_  
_Looking grim_

Listening, Nathan could definitely hear a subtle squeaking in the background. There was a familiar quality to it, and he cursed when he suddenly remembered what it was, admitting to the fault in a sheepish tone. "Oh… shit guys, uhhh. I think that was me."

Dick weighed his response, "Uhhh, Nathan? Why were you squeaking?"

"I uh, just got this really awesome leather coat so I was wearing it. It makes uh, a noise, when I move."

Pickles snorted in amusement, he knew exactly which coat, and had fond memories of it. "Okey, so what do we do? Ken we clean it aff th’ track er what?"

"Don’t think so, guys, it’s a pretty quiet sound, but it’d really flatten the vocals if we removed the range… Either just leave it in, or re-record it. It’s up to you." Knubbler took one of the beers and opened it. "Because honestly? I don’t know what kind of crazy dog ears you have, Pickles, but I don’t think anyone’s gong to notice."

"These are fans we’re talking about." Nathan shook his head, "They’re insane, they’ll notice. They analyze the hell out of anything we make."

"Yeh, but do we care? I mean, dey’re feans, dey’re idiots. An’ dey’re so preoccupied wit’ yer… er, demo. Tryin’ ta figure out yer mystery girl… heh. Let ‘em twist deir lil’ minds inta knots over a fuckin’ squeak!"

Quiet for a moment, Nathan listened to the track, wondering if it was really worth re-recording. The frontman’s perfectionist streak screamed that it was, but his laziness was an equally powerful (de)motivation.

_It’s down to just you and I_  
_One of us will fall tonight_  
_One of us will die._  
_But which of us_  
_will take a life?_  
_Who cries for mercy?_  
_Who holds the knife?_  
_Betracheotomy._

The tall singer grunted, "I’ll think about it." He tapped his fingers on his knee uncomfortably for a couple of seconds, and then spoke again, "Hey Knubbler, can you like, go… somewhere… else? I need to talk to Pickles, alone."

"You’re kicking me out? Seriously?" Dick started off with a protest in his voice, but it withered under Nathan’s glare. "Okay. Alright, I’m going." The bespectacled producer picked up his organizer and PDA and gave the two musicians their space, muttering under his breath about how it was practically _his_ studio, and if they wanted to have their gay little man to man moment they should leave, not _him_ … But one does not say such things to Dethklok, so an inaudible grumble they stayed.

Once the third wheel had broken off, Nathan locked the door and gestured to the drummer, "I uh, talked to Skwisgaar a little while ago." Returning to his seat with an angry grunt, "The whole band knows."

"Yeh, I know." Pickles sat next to the bigger man and patted his broad back, "Toki told me early dis mornin’. Are ya gonna be okey dood?"

Nathan tensed, Pickles was asking about _him_ , not about _them_ , or about the band. As if it wasn’t a big deal that the other guys had found out, as if it were only Nathan who had a problem. Of course his bandmate was right. If the rest of the band were able to handle it without freaking out, surely he could be mature about it as well. But his first reaction was always visceral: fight or flight. Pickles was stroking his hair soothingly, he’d always been able to read the burly singer, sense how he was feeling by the slightest shift in his body language. "I guess so."

"Don’t worry Nate. We ken trust ‘em. Fuckin’ wit us would fuck wit’ da band, an’ deat would jest be shootin’ demselves in th’ foot, y’know?" Pickles pulled Nathan’s head closer and kissed him softly.

It would be okay, Nathan told himself, of course it would be okay. He wanted it to be. They were Dethklok, and they always got their way. Which was why there was an 18-million-dollar research facility devoted to providing Skwisgaar with a dragon. This was nothing. He kissed Pickles back, and letting the clever little man read him, silently asked for more…

It was two hours later, Nathan was laying naked on the sofa, sweaty and panting, with an equally damp and exhausted red-headed drummer sprawled across him, when someone’s Dethphone rang. With their clothes in a strewn mess, it was impossible to tell who’s it was, and when Pickles dangled over the side of the couch to fish the noisy spiky thing out of its holster and answer it, it became obvious that it wasn’t his.

"Y’ello?"

"Oh! Pickles." It was Offdensen’s voice, raised in mild surprise. "I take it Nathan is with you?"

"Yeah-huh, ya wanna tah’k ta him?" The drummer climbed back up to his comfortable place on Nathan’s stomach. The vocalist’s hand found its place at the small of his back, and Pickles smiled.

"No, just relay a message, if you could. I’m calling an emergency band meeting, board room two. Right now. Please get here as quickly as you can."

"Reely? Shit… Right now?" Pickles stopped playing with Nathan’s hair, and made a ‘hold on’ gesture to the big guy, who was palming his ass playfully.

"Yes, now." Charles’ voice was terse, "I’m serious. Just get here."

"Yeeah, okey. I’ll tell ‘im." He was thanked curtly and hung up on. Pickles made an irritated noise and dropped the phone. He leaned up to nuzzle at Nathan, "We gahtta go to a band meetin’. ‘Now, reet now.’" He mimicked Charles, sliding down and off of the frontman’s body.

"Fuck, what’s with him and timing? He must have a camera in here." Nathan was pretty sure there wasn’t one, but he wouldn’t be surprised. "Do we _have_ to go?"

"He’s all serious. Must be a big deal." The drummer had already cleaned himself as well as he could and was getting dressed. Nathan watched him, letting out a quiet grumble, apparently they were going.

7

Toki and Skwisgaar were sitting on opposite sides of the broad mahogany table, the latter fiddling with his fingers in the absence of his guitar and being made to wait. Mid-afternoon sunlight poured in through the big triangular window, making the wood glow and the room uncomfortably warm. Nathan sat near the head of the table on the shady side, and Pickles squinted at the brightness disdainfully and decided that since Offdensen wasn’t there, for some reason, he’d go get a beer. It wasn’t to be, however, as their manager strode through the open door before the drummer managed to escape.

"Oh, hey Charlie." Pickles turned around and sat next to Toki, with the window at his back. He made a face, that side of the room was way too hot. He glanced at the young man beside him, who just shrugged, but appeared not to mind the heat.

Once Offdensen had taken his seat, he started to say something, but was interrupted by Toki.

"Don’ts we gots to waits for M-" Toki, in turn, was interrupted by Skwisgaar.

"Why ams we here!? I’s was goingks to has an appointment wits-"

Nathan cut in, "Yeah! Why are we here!?" With that, the four present band members just started talking over each other.

"Don’ts interrupts me!" "I didn’ts hear you says notting!" "I got out of bed for this?" "Ken we order in Chinese food if we’re gahnna be here a while?" "I want Greek!" "Hey, I gots question abouts de clothings budget!" "Er, guys… why ain’t Murderface here?"

Nathan stopped talking, and after a few moments the others did as well. The singer cleared his throat. "Yeah, where’s Murderface?"

After patiently waiting for the storm to clear, Charles slid a photocopied note across the table. "That’s what I’ve called you all in to talk about. Murderface left. He’s gone."


	3. Coping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: NC-17 for swearing and sex.  
> Try not to feel cheated.

Part 3: Coping

 

8

The place he chose to stay wasn’t one of the luxurious Zagat-rated hotels the band usually hired if they were travelling. William had to have privacy, secrecy. He needed a place where they knew how to provide a sensitive guest with discretion. So the room was comfortable, clean, but small, smelling faintly of old smoke and wood paneling, reminding William of the house where he grew up in Tennessee. This was Ohio, though, chilly in the early spring, but certainly not where anyone would expect to find him. He needed to make himself an unknown, so he applied pomade and tied his hair back, trimmed his moustache, wore long slacks and shoes instead of boots. He was nobody again, just like he had been twelve years ago.

Oddly, without the pressure of fame, the scrutiny of the public, William took to keeping himself and his surroundings a lot cleaner than he had at Mordhaus. It took a while to kick in, since he was so used to having a horde of Klokateers clean up after him, but eventually he developed new habits, and after a few weeks, his own bandmates wouldn’t have recognized him as Murderface, the repulsive bassist of Dethklok.

It had been just under a month when the papers were finalized. His knowledge of the law was still there, if a bit rusty, and he went over the work one last time before sending the copies to his manager. Ex-manager? Would Charles still be representing him once he struck out on his solo career? It was so hard to believe he was leaving Dethklok, throwing away the surety of fame and fortune just because…

No, he reminded himself, it wasn’t _just_ because two of his bandmates had turned out to be gay. He wasn’t so completely narrow-minded that he couldn’t have handled that… if it were _just_ that. But they were also the people who had bullied him, teased him and pushed him around, ignored his creative input, belittled his contributions to the band… all this time they’d acted like they were better than him. That they’d been screwing around behind his back was just the last straw. William’s vision blurred with anger as he glared down at the papers in his hands.

They were his resignation, as well as demands for his ‘fair share’ of the Dethklok fortune. He was going to cut his slice of the pie and run. At least that was the theory, had been, up until that point, where he was actually at that crossroads. He’d never made such a big decision on his own, and the more he thought about it, the more it felt like it was growing, getting swiftly heavier until it was far too much for him. Could he really do it? Just walk away? Now that the means to sever his ties to the band were in his hands, he didn’t know if he could actually go through with it. Deep down, he missed the people he’d been living with, playing with for the last decade. Being alone… was harder than he expected.

There was a plaintive scratching at the door. Buford needed to go out, and William got up to get the leash. Walking the dog was a welcome distraction from his internal conflict. Aside from the five year old German Pointer, his bowie knife and a few articles of clothing were all William took with him from Mordhaus. The blade he kept sheathed under the suede jacket he wore against the cool Northern spring, the 'metalhead' style clothes he had put away in favor of a more ‘urban cowboy’ sort of look. The paperwork went into William’s sock drawer, and Buford got to go on an exciting romp in a bucolic Columbus suburb.

 

9

 

Murderface had been gone a month, and while there was a disjointed feeling, a sense that the band was incomplete without him, there was just too much going on for anyone to say they really _missed_ the man. Not when his presence was felt daily, looming over Mordhaus in the form of legal threats, media insanity, tabloid bullshit, and a constant barrage of hopefuls trying to ingratiate their way into taking the bassist’s place. Murderface was causing more havoc by _not_ being there than he ever had while present.

The chaos had caused a rift between Nathan and Pickles, they slept fitfully in their own beds, paranoid of the constant scrutiny the band was under. Stolen glances reminded them both of what they had been robbed of. Pickles had become sullen and withdrawn into drinking, while Nathan was angry and destructive, throwing tantrums over the littlest annoyance.

Toki and Skwisgaar had been left in emotional orbit: circling, yet not truly a part of the ongoing drama. They couldn’t live their lives normally, yet they couldn’t do anything to help fix the problem, and the result was that they were at each others' throats constantly, like a pair of nervous dogs in a cage. Of course, their bickering just made the overall tension worse.

Charles had taken to keeping migraine medication in his desk drawer, working himself to exhaustion to fight back the flood before it drowned them. Those who had been waiting for a chance to strike at Mordhaus had chosen this moment of weakness to do so, and suddenly the manager was struggling to keep up with a barrage of lawsuits and demands. A feeding frenzy among the many businesses that clung to Dethklok’s belly like a swarm of remoras.

It had actually gotten to the point where Nathan called a band meeting without their manager present, which, granted, involved a lot of drinking and yelling about sports teams and snack foods… but eventually they got to the more serious issue at hand.

"We have to find him and beat some fucking sense into him. I’m sick of this… all of this… stuff." The band frontman made an encompassing gesture at the stark stone walls. The other three knew what he meant, of course, they’d all developed varying degrees of fluency in Nathan-speak.

Skwisgaar just narrowed his eyes, "Uh! If he wants to quits so badly, why don’ts we lets him?"

"Yeh, dood… I mean, it’ll blow over, reet?" Pickles scooted a bottlecap across the table with his finger. "We could get a new bassist. Sahmone who showers… an’ who doesn’t try ta fuck us over."

" _No_!" Nathan barked, "Murderface is a member of this band! I am not going to let him just run away! Nobody else is going to take his fucking place!"

"Why does you cares so much anyways?" The lead guitarist was genuinely wondering, rather than just being derisive. Nathan had been making excuses for Murderface for years, and the Swede had never really understood why. He had intuited that there was something between the singer and bassist, some debt of friendship that made Nathan feel like he owed the crude, dirty American something, but the full story had never come out.

"Because we gots to keeps our bands togedder! Because we’s a fucksing families! Because if we lets him goes, den we’s all gonna falls aparts, okay!?" Toki’s tone was gratingly petulant, and Skwisgaar gave him a dirty look, which the younger guitarist ignored.

Nathan looked at Toki oddly as well, "Uh… um. Yeah, I guess, something like that." He shook his head, "It’s personal, okay? I knew him before we started the band, and it’s just… you don’t just throw that away."

Pickles nodded, he knew what Nathan was talking about. "Yeh, I unnerstand." He popped the cap on another bottle and raised it. "So what’s th’ plan, chief?"

 

10

 

It had been difficult to make the decision. William had put it off for a while, and when he finally dropped the envelope in the mail, he felt good about it. Still nervous, but strong, like he was achieving something. He yelled a triumphant "Fuck you, asschholes!" as the mailbox swung shut with a metallic bang.

He was starting a new life, no more was he William Murderface, under-appreciated bassist for the world’s biggest band, now he was his own show, a name unto himself. Having gotten tired of the motel, William had rented an apartment in the thick of downtown, a large urban loft with a view of the dirty Scioto river on its way through the city. He’d even started making plans for his new band.

Planet Piss would have to be scrapped, of course. The project had already been sitting on the fire for too long, the name had become synonymous with failure in Murderface’s life, and he was older now, he told himself, he had matured. He needed to create something dignified, respectable, _artistic_. The answer was simple, he told himself. He would reinvent himself by reinventing a genre! He just needed to get a couple of musicians on the wagon, and he’d be ready to make history. Or repeat it. Whichever.

Still, he existed in the shadow of Dethklok. The band had such power that it was part of the cultural landscape: Ubiquitous and inescapable, it was a machine, a living force greater than the mere sum of a handful of human musicians. William knew he could never achieve that level of Godhood again, and he didn’t intend to try.

 

11

 

It was still hard to sleep alone. He’d have thought that after two months, he’d have gotten used to it, but it was still bothering him. Maybe it wasn’t so much that he was alone, but why. The reasons, the fact that he couldn’t have that comfort when he wanted it so badly. He decided that must have been what was keeping him up. He was still awake when he heard his door slide open. Only a few people had a keycard that would override his lock, but he sat up anyway, groping for the lamp switch.

The door slid shut. "Nate’n? Ya awake?"

Giving up on the lamp, Nathan relaxed back into his bed, "Yeah… uh. Couldn’t sleep."

"Yeh, me too…" Pickles hovered near the door, identified only by his voice. "M’sahrry ta jest come bargin’ in here, I know we’ve been… weird, since, y’know."

"Since Murderface fucked off and sic’d the world on us?"

A sheepish, "Yeah. Deat. He’s an asshole."

Nathan shifted and sank down onto his pillows, "Yeah. I know… uh. So… are you okay?" He wasn’t sure what Pickles wanted anymore, their relationship had been so strained even small talk felt alien between them.

"No… Nate, ah’m not. I miss ya." The drummer was a ghost in the room, little more than faintly shifting shapes until his weight pressed on the mattress, and Nathan reached out to pull his friend close. Pickles had been missed, too. He turned around in Nathan’s arms, and instinct led him to find the singer’s mouth with his own, pressing his lips and body against the warmth and solidity of the other.

"I’m sick of this bullshit." Nathan murmured between kisses. This was how it’d been for weeks now. They’d sleep alone for a few nights, restless and unhappy, until one or the other would lose their resolve and come creeping into the other’s bed to steal a few hours of comfort. Their lovemaking had become desperate, rushed, and not nearly as fulfilling as it had been before. But they’d locked themselves into the habit, they knew they were being watched, the world was at their heels, and a private moment was almost too much to ask.

Pickles sighed in agreement, "What’re we gahnna do about it?"

"I don’t know. We don’t know where he is." The paperwork had arrived at Charles’ office with a PO box number as a return address. By quitting, Murderface had stabbed deep into the heart of Dethklok, and Nathan felt it most keenly. He cared about William, stubbornly ignored the crudeness, selfishness, and immaturity that had rooted and festered in the man. The bassist had been different, years ago, and they’d been friends. "I guess we find him, and we yell at him. And if he doesn’t come back, I'll kick his ass."

"Sounds good ta me." Pickles chuckled as he squirmed out of his briefs, clutching at the larger man, pulling him closer. Nathan rolled onto his hands and knees, positioning himself above the drummer and moving down to devour that lithe little body. The singer’s mouth was hungry and hot on his companion’s freckled skin, kissing and biting and licking until he brought moans and whimpers to the writhing redhead’s lips. Where once they’d had hours for lingering foreplay, there was a sense of urgency, and the two musicians touched each other with ravenous need.

Prepwork was a matter of seconds now, Nathan slicked up his fingers and worked them into his partner’s willing body, giving the drummer a quick loosening massage before he replaced his hand with his cock, quickly shoving his hips home. Pickles was accustomed to the big frontman, and he moaned with pleasure when Nathan pushed into him, he liked it a little rough like that.

With the luxury of time, they might have moved together slowly, made it last. But instead they worked toward a finite goal, Nathan snapped his hips and Pickles groaned, arching under the relentless pounding. There was certainly something exciting about the anxious energy between them, the sense of danger and forbidden-ness added a certain spice… but at the same time, it was draining, emotionally and physically.

Panting, sweating, the dark-haired singer bowed his back over his smaller lover, biting and kissing as he pushed harder for the finish line. Pickles wailed and clawed at Nathan’s back, jerking himself to the rhythm of the larger man’s thrusts, just as needy for that release. When he came it was intense, but forced, and it was over too quickly. Nathan growled, bucked and reached his own climax within Pickles’ trembling body, seeking, but not finding that sense of completion he wanted.

Two bodies rolled away from each other, sore and damp, hearts racing. Nathan reached out to pull the smaller man close again, but Pickles was already climbing out of the bed. He’d wash himself and go back to his room. By that point, Nathan knew it was useless to argue about it. He did the same thing on the nights he’d been the one to seek out his drummer’s company.

 

12

 

The new band came together quickly and fairly smoothly once William had a concrete idea. He still had enough money to make things easy for himself, it was merely a matter of holding auditions and choosing the pieces that fit his needs. There was no want for applicants, even as the least popular God among Dethklok’s pantheon, Murderface was still a deity to thousands.

Erik got on board first, a drummer of some skill. Nowhere near Pickles, of course, but William wanted a band who wouldn’t challenge or overshadow him musically. Erik didn’t expect any control or creative voice, and as long as he had plenty of beer and pizza, his life was good. It took a bit longer to find Sanjay and Boris, though, but they rounded out the foursome neatly.

Sanjay was a gentle rebel, pierced and tattooed, his mellow personality hid a deep, passionate love of art. He played trumpet and trombone, as well as oboe and clarinet. He also had a clever hand for drawing, and though he considered himself an artist first and a performer second, Sanjay had no problem with taking direction. Which suited William well.

Boris, who insisted on having ‘Exhibit B’ as his stage name, was a proficient guitarist who could also sing and handle a banjo. He’d made a bit of a name for himself as a solo act in Corpus Christi, but he wasn’t really much of a songwriter, and he knew playing covers in bars wouldn’t get him a record deal.

There was the issue of naming the new group, which was still unresolved when they got their first booking. At first, there had been the usual democratic pooling of ideas, but the venue wanted to know what to put on its marquee, and William wound up ignoring his band’s suggestions in favor of the first thing that came to mind while under pressure. Thus they became ‘The Tucson Murder Party’.

The legal ties to Dethklok had already been severed by the night of their first show, but William wasn’t shy about using his name as a former member to promote his band, especially once his new manager convinced him it was a good idea. Floyd Kentiger was a rare find. He was certainly no Charles Offdensen, the pudgy little man couldn’t have beat a mongoose in a fair fight, and his legal skills were only slightly less dodgy than William’s own. But the guy knew how to get bookings, how to sell tickets, and most importantly, he could handle the business aspects both intelligently and with relative honesty.

He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was only a few minutes to showtime, and The Tucson Murder Party were waiting for their cue to take the stage. The venue wasn’t a big place. Floyd had suggested they start small, it’d give the band a sense of accessibility and humility. A bar with a fair-sized stage, the audience seated around tables made from big wooden cable reels. The place was pretty close to packed, and as William took a quick peek out into the audience, he knew he really shouldn’t have been surprised to see the four members of his previous band sitting right up front.

Of course Dethklok had shown up. They wanted to see what he could do on his own. This was a challenge, William decided. They’d never had any faith in him, that’s why he could never get anything done when he was with them! He’d had lots of ideas, ambition, drive, until Nathan and those other bastards had taken it out of him. He’d show them what he could do, alright.

Sanjay and Eric went out on stage first, followed by Boris, who stepped up to the second microphone. Murderface waited a couple of seconds before he appeared, heralded by some cheering, and a little bit of booing as well. But as Floyd said, any attention was good. With the house lights focused on the stage, William couldn’t clearly see his ex-bandmates watching him, which was good. He was nervous enough.

Stepping up to the first mic, William signaled his band, and they launched into their first song. Boris’ crisp, twanging tenor blending well with his own throaty baritone.

 _Out of bone is built this dome,_  
_Skulls and teeth and steel barbed wire,_  
_Posts in the ground all around,_  
_Burning with unholy fire._  
_The ranchers are bringing the herd in,_  
_But there’s no cattle here,_  
_It’s a thousand head of human souls!_  
_And they stink of sin and fear._  
  
_‘Cus this is Hell’s rodeo!_  
_It’s a neverending show,_  
_So come on in and have a seat,_  
_You’ve got nowhere else to go!_  
_Once the party’s started,_  
_You’ll wish you’d stayed home instead!_  
_Cos if you come to Hell’s Rodeo,_  
_Brother you’d better be dead!_

The audience had already started to respond, tapping toes and nodding heads. Signs of acknowledgement, if not approval. The band gained confidence as they played, and William began to relax. The bassist’s singing became more enthused, looser, the lyrics taking on a wry edge, which Boris matched.

 _This ain’t no dog and pony act,_  
_See that dogie on the run?_  
_Last night he had a heart attack,_  
_Now he’s the devil’s fun!_  
_And that poor fucker in the pen,_  
_He got shot right in the head,_  
_When his wife came home and caught him,_  
_With someone else, in bed!_  
_Brand ‘em burn ‘em,_  
_Make ‘em squeal,_  
_It’s funny how those sinners,_  
_Sound just like dumb critters._

Soon, the nervousness had evaporated under the familiar heat of performing, the bright lights and whoops from the audience brought out the best in William, and excited his inexperienced band to play harder, follow his lead and deliver the goods.

 _See that little bastard?_  
_He was once a thief,_  
_Now he’s just another,_  
_Piece of human beef._  
_And murderers are common,_  
_Put ‘em in the ring,_  
_Throw them a victim,_  
_And let ‘em do their thing!_  
_Oh, but don’t feel sorry,_  
_For that sucker’s smashed-in head,_  
_It’s not like it’ll kill him,_  
_He’s already dead!_  
  
_‘Cus this is Hell’s rodeo!_  
_It’s a neverending show,_  
_So come on in and have a seat,_  
_You’ve got nowhere else to go!_

The rest of the show progressed the same way, each song ended with a round of cheering, and by the time they’d gotten to their fifth and final song (they’d only written five songs so far,) Murderface was actively looking for the members of Dethklok, wanting to see if he’d impressed them enough. He was disappointed when he didn’t see them where he was sure they’d been; a gaggle of college kids were now sitting at their table.

When he left the stage, William was hot and tired and pissed off. Those bastards had walked out on him! He’d lived up to their challenge and they’d just left! Did that mean he’d _won_? Could he just tell himself that and feel better? William stayed behind to mellow out while his band went back to the bus, needing some quiet time to think. He was leaning against an amp with a towel and a bottle of cold water, watching the roadies work, when four familiar, albeit not terribly welcome figures intruded on Murderface's personal space.

"Murderface!" Nathan’s voice still made the bassist cringe. The other three were hanging back slightly, watching, but not confronting their former bandmate directly.

William glared up at the tall, burly vocalist. "Goddamnit, what do you want!? How did you…" No wait, that would have been a stupid question, this was Dethklok, they could get backstage wherever they wanted. Even if they weren’t supposed to. 

Nathan balked for a moment, then plowed ahead, "I, uh, we… _we_ want you to come back. To Dethklok."

Seriously? William could almost laugh at how pathetic this was. "No fucking way. You asscholes can go shcrew yourschelvesh!"

Pickles sidled up next to the singer, the drummer’s body language in proximity to Nathan made Murderface feel ill. "C’mahn dood. Don’t be a dick. Ya kean’t jest abahndon us. We’re yer band, naht dem dumb kids!"

"I schaid no. I have a new band, and a new life, and it’sch better than living with you dicksh! You never reschpected me, you never took me scheriously, and now it’sch too late. Get the fuck out… No, you know what? You schtay. I’m leaving." Tossing the plastic water bottle to the ground, Murderface turned and walked away, feeling a sense of satisfaction he hadn’t known in a long time.


	4. Earthbound

 

13

 

Nathan would actually have gone after Murderface and given him a sound fist in the face, if Pickles hadn’t held him back with a light touch. “He ain’t wert’ it, Nate… it’ll jest fuck things up more.”

“I know! He just… he makes me so angry! He can’t do this!”

Pickles patted the singer’s shoulder soothingly, “We’ll figure sommin’ out, okey? Let’s jest git outta here.”

The Scandinavian guitarists had backed off during their bandmates’ altercation, and while Toki was watching the argument from a safe distance, Skwisgaar had caught the eye of an attractive woman who’d been loitering around the periphery. The curvy brunette was dressed typical of the scene, but there was something interesting about her, a presence that the usual groupies and roadies’ girls didn’t have. The tall Swede smiled at her, intrigued, and she smiled back, polite. When the rest of the band (minus their defective bassist) decided to go back to their bus, Toki had to pull Skiwsgaar along by the wrist, tugging sharply to snap him out of it.  As much as the predatory guitarist hated to give up his quarry, he knew when pursuit wasn’t going to pan out, and Skwisgaar followed his bandmates resignedly.

Once she was no longer being watched, the dark-haired woman flipped open a slim cell phone. “This is Martina.”

A pause, then a soft, accented male voice. “Did they bring him back in?”

The brunette’s tone was stoic, “They tried, but he’s not buying it…”

“I see. Then your job is not yet done.”

“No, sir... I'm working on it. I will contact you again soon.” She closed the phone, pocketing it as she hurried toward the Tucson Murder Party’s crowded equipment van.

One of the roadies called to her, “Hey Marti, are you coming or what?”

“Yeah! Wait for me!” She replied cheerfully, jogging to catch up.

 

14

 

It had taken an annoyingly long time to get to the bottom of the stolen master issue, and by then the fervor over the song’s mystery subject had died down, which was to be expected. What was a surprise was how, when a few people actually hit upon the truth, those who suggested it where shut down so quickly, by mockery or, occasionally, threatened violence, that nobody dared to mention that particular theory again.  Apparently some things were just beyond the pale for Dethklok's fans.

Charles was not in a merciful mood when he discovered the culprit. After weeks of record-checking, questioning of employees, and general deduction-work, a rather tangled little story came to light:

It seemed that there was this one unlucky Klokateer who worked in the recording studio, and had some family members visiting Mordhaus. This privileged group included a brother with his new girlfriend, and during their stay, said girlfriend slipped a little something into the family’s wine. Once they were asleep, she had skipped out with the Klokateer’s uniform and keycard, broken into the studio, and stolen the recording. She’d then returned the card and uniform to their original place, and gone back to her suite before anyone suspected a thing.  
  
This discovery had been delayed by several factors, the most prominent of which was sheer numbers. With a city's worth of people in permanent residence, visitors were constantly coming and going. However, to bring any guests into Mordhaus, copious paperwork needed to be filled out and submitted well in advance, providing detailed information about the people entering Dethklok’s stronghold. It was merely a matter of sifting through this paperwork and putting the pieces together.

In interrogation, the thief admitted to having planned to steal the recording. Though she never said exactly why, just that she figured she could make some money by selling it online. Of course, the plan was flawed, in that anything stolen from Mordhaus would be very quickly traced back to her - a fact that only occurred to her after the fact. She never said she was particularly smart, certainly not bright enough to delve into the world of the black market. So rather than sell it, she’d just released the song anonymously into the world.

The resolution, in Offdensen’s mind, was perfectly fair. The Klokateer had been suspended from duty indefinitely, as it wasn’t really the guy’s fault that he’d been tricked and drugged, but he was still a weak link in their workforce. The girlfriend was given a new suite in the ‘special guest wing’, a comparatively pleasant part of Mordland’s prison system, with actual running water and electricity and only a few rats.

He might let her out in a few years.

With that taken care of, there were other issues for the overworked CFO to deal with. No rest for the wicked, he supposed. The issue at hand was twofold. While Murderface had been enjoying skyrocketing popularity for what the media had dubbed ‘Boot Hill Cock Rock’, Dethklok was slowly stagnating in Nathan’s refusal to replace their bassist or write any new music. Their empire was still making enough money to sustain itself: the band’s dozens of endorsement deals, plus continuing record, DVD and merchandise sales kept the machine running, albeit just barely.

Profiteering wasn’t the only reason Charles kept pressuring the boys to work - it wasn’t even the most important reason. There was far more to it than money or music. It was about power, and keeping that power. Dethklok’s manager had gained a lot of knowledge during the years he’d worked with the band, and he understood that with their power came enemies: the righteous, the greedy, and the insane. All of which were continuing to come in droves, as they had been since Murderface had left, endlessly clawing at the perceived crack in Mordland’s legal defenses.

 

15

 

The most brutal, badass, dark and dangerous singer in the world was pouting. He was faced with a problem he couldn’t fix with threats or money, and being at such a loss was both frustrating and frightening. Two days since the confrontation at the bar, and they were still in Ohio, their giant spiky Dethbus parked behind the hotel where they’d been staying, which meant closer quarters than the four men were used to. Pickles stayed with Nathan almost all the time, which their Nordic bandmates said nothing about, and even now he was trying to soothe the big guy by brushing his hair. Sensing Nathan’s mood, Toki and Skwisgaar had decided to clear out for a while, knowing the situation wasn’t going to end in anything they wanted to stick around for.

The television was off, the only sound the soft slide of brush bristles through dark hair. Pickles smiled, the brush picked up a rhythm. Chuff-chuff, repeated. He began to sing softly… It was a song he’d written years earlier, but never recorded.

 

_"Deep in the AM,_

_Crawlin'_ _to_ _three,_

_Everyone was sleepin'_

_'Cept the Angels n’ me._

_Sittin' at the back door,_

_With a brick wall view,_

_I was shooting stars,_

_And thinkin' of you._

 

_The moon smilin' down,_

_Into city cracks,_

_On the naked streets,_

_And their pothole tracks._

_And I was just survivin',_

_Livin' on my past,_

_I was seeing stars,_

_And burnin' down fast."_

 

Nathan tilted his head back, sleepily listening to the lyrics. They weren’t familiar. Was this a Snakes n’ Barrels song? He stroked his drummer’s thigh, saving his questions for later.

 

_I thirsted for your love,_

_I drank it down like rye,_

_And I wondered where you went,_

_When the bottles ran dry,_

_And though I kept thinkin',_

_Tried to whet my brain,_

_The stars floated right back up,_

_And I poured down the drain._

 

_The thought of your voice,_

_Sent me flowing in my veins,_

_Steel mosquitoes bit me,_

_And I lost my reins._

_Then recall your eyes,_

_And I fell into snow,_

_In the California heat,_

_I drifted down low._

_In the dirty and dark,_

_I vacated my head,_

_And saw you from above,_

_Stretched out on my bed._

_Your hair spilled on the sheets,_

_A forest burned black,_

_I sent smoke signals to heaven,_

_To beg for you back._   
  


Long black hair? For a moment Nathan wondered if the words were about him… but that wouldn’t make much sense. He’d been a teenager when he and Pickles met, and the rocker had already sunk about as low as he was going to get. The once fiery whipcord glam god was living in a filthy rental unit in downtown Los Angeles, spending most of his time and money on getting and staying as high as possible. This was back when he could really get high, when he could lose himself completely and not care if he was dirty or hungry or cold, which he had been all of at that time.  
  


_I don’t think_

_I’ll ever know,_

_How much I’ve wasted_

_On dying slow._

_When I was offered a light,_

_I didn't see you,_

_You drove me into hell,_

_Someone else pulled me through._

_A sure grip held my hand,_

_When I thought I would fall,_

_All this time and you,_

_Were not there at all._

_I still remember your face,_

_And how you said you were gone,_

_But now I’m livin’ without you,_

_So long, baby, so long._

 

Pickles took Nathan’s hand and squeezed it gently, letting the singer know that some of the lyrics were indeed about him. The lyrics were about the past, but not all of them were old.  It was something that Pickles had never recorded, and he never would. This, Nathan understood, would remain theirs alone. the hairbrush fell to the ugly hotel carpet, as Pickles fell grinning into the bed.

16  
  


Since coming to Columbus, Toki and Skwisgaar had been acting like the band’s internal problems had nothing to do with them. They’d spend most of their time shopping or watching television, quietly conversing in their private Scandi-mutt lingo. The two guitarists had effectively cut themselves off from their companions, which was bothering the drummer. Pickles didn’t like it when the people he cared about became distant, it meant something bad was happening, and it was probably his fault. The next evening, while Nathan was out, he brought it up with the string players during dinner

“What’s wrong wit’ ya guys? Yer like totally fuckin’ ahff all da time, an ya hardly even tahk ta me er Nate when ya are here.” The redhead challenged the Scandinavians as he prodded angrily at his ravioli. The food at the hotel was pretty good, but very little of it was being eaten.

Skwisgaar shook his head, then replied, “Dere’s notting wrongs. We justs wants to gives yous two somes space...”

“Ja, spaces. You gots to works t’ings out.” Toki mumbled, not liking to be put on the spot.

“Space? Skwisgaar, Toki, c’mahn… We’re yer friends… We don’t need space.” Pickles knew he’d been irritable, stressed, and maybe he’d been hard to live with, but he wanted the support of his peers. Instead he felt abandoned, unwanted yet again. Fidgeting, worrying, he ventured, “Are ya angry at us too?”

“Why? Because yous ams gays now?” Toki always knew how to phrase things in the bluntest possible way. “I don’ts care. I tolds you dats.”

“Ah. I don’ts cares neider. Toki and me, we comes from de countries wit’ mores progressings aptitudes towards de homosexesuals. In Sweden dey has de mosts civils rights for de gays in de worlds.” Skwisgaar smirked, proud of his highly evolved heritage.

“Norsways also does toos!” Toki insisted, “Scandinavians ams very moderns and opens-minded. Nots like de Americans wit’ hatings everyones what’s am differents...”

Pickles lifted a pierced eyebrow, “But uh, don’t you two hate Germans and Dutch?”

“Oh yeah.” Toki shrugged, “But we gots good reasons.”

“Ja. Very goods reasons.”

“Oh. Okey den.” The drummer forked a few squares of pasta into his mouth. He got the distinct feeling he didn’t need or want to know those reasons. “But I mean… yer still… here, reet?”

“We ain’ts goings anywhere, Pickle.” Toki got up and patted the drummer’s shoulder, he couldn’t help but notice how thin it was. “You shoulds eat dat befores it gets cold.” He hopped over the sofa in the middle of the suite and turned on the television.

Everything in the hotel was rounded and in pastel neutrals, safe and inoffensive to the eye, unless you were used to black and steel grey and visceral red. Pickles hated it there, he wanted to go home. He wanted Nathan to come back. He wanted to kick Murderface in the teeth and make him come back with them so they could get the fuck out of the Midwest. But for the sake of peace, he ate his pasta and tried his best not to complain.

 

17

 

With their blue-collar appeal and connections, Floyd was practically able to pick any label he wanted for his clients. The Tucson Murder Party had already broken onto radio, and two of their five songs were getting regular airplay. ‘Snakebite Sucker’ was particularly popular with the young folks for its uncouth and suggestive lyrics. Pretty soon, the band was hard at work, polishing the songs they’d already written, and writing new ones for their first album.

Energized by success, William had never felt so on top of the world… Sure, it wasn’t like when he lived with Dethklok, the vast rooms and hordes of servants, having anything in the world at his fingertips. Now he lived more modestly. Comfortable, certainly, but like a regular person he had to clean his own apartment, do his own laundry, and take care of himself… He’d lost weight, too, a side effect of a little physical work and eating less. He felt better, and he knew he looked better. Most importantly, he knew that every little victory was _his_.

The band had rented a studio in which to write and practice, and Floyd was perusing recording facilities… A whiteboard in their practice space had a selection of possible names for their first album, everyone agreed that there should be something about murder in it. There were a lot of lyrics about murder in their songs, after all.

And of course, there needed to be dead bodies on the album cover, they hadn’t really thought much about the album cover. Were they going to use photographs or artwork? And who would they hire? What would their budget be for album art anyway? William decided he wanted some answers about that, so he called the band’s manager. Floyd was always happy to talk to William and explain things to him without assuming he’d be too stupid to understand. That was one of the reasons Murderface liked him. The phone rang.

And continued to ring. Maybe he was out? No, this was a cell number, he had the thing on him at all times as far as William knew. … He must be taking a nap or maybe a shower, call back later. Hours passed. Anxious and alone in his apartment, William did chores to pass the time. Dishes got done, the garbage taken out. He called the manager again, no answer. Frustrated, the bassist found and called Floyd’s home number.

A woman answered, the girlfriend, William recalled. No, Floyd wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen him since he left for work, he should be at his office… yes, she could give him the office land line. William thanked her and tried the new number. The phone rang, and the bassist worried. Floyd wasn’t usually hard to reach. At least not for this long.

The manager’s office wasn’t that far from where he lived. It was a quick cab ride, ten minutes at most. William had been there plenty of times, knew the building well… the marble slab walls and frosted sconces were familiar, they made him feel important just by being there. The brass-railed elevator took him up, carpets underfoot freshly vacuumed, with a disinfectant smell. You always notice small details when you’re anxious, he thought. Knock on the door. No answer.

“Floyd? Are you there?” William knocked again, then tried the doorknob. Unlocked.

The smell of copper, rays of late-day sunlight edging the room in gold. Floyd Kentiger was indeed still there. He’d been working diligently for his clients, and hadn’t heard his door open. It wasn’t his habit to lock it, but he got few visitors that time of day. He barely had time to produce a surprised squeak when he looked up and saw the gleaming knife. By the time William found him, the body was cold, the blood-soaked carpet underneath it already gone dark.

 ---


End file.
